"Whereupon it goes into seclusion altogether. Mignonette, look up and kiss me—how much longer do you suppose I can wait for that?"
He had no longer to wait at that time, and the touch of her lips was with a tremulous gladness which was tale-telling. And then the position of the lowered head and the hand which kept its place on his shoulder shewed him that she was clinging, though with shy eagerness, like a bird that with tired wing has found her nest. With one of those quick impulses which to-day seemed to have taken the place of his usual steadiness, Mr. Linden bent down and blessed her; in words such as she never remembered from other lips. Not many indeed, but deep and strong,—as the very depth and strength of his own human and religious nature; words that stilled Faith's heart as with the shadowing of peace; so that for the time she could not wonder, but only rest. They made her tremble a moment; then she rested as if the words had been a spell. But the rest wrought action. Faith drew back presently and looked up at Mr. Linden to see how he looked. And then she could not tell. Her puzzled eyes found nothing to remark upon.
"Endy—I thought you would not be here for two or three days yet."
"It was nearly impossible. My child, when did you get sick?"
"O—a good while ago."
"'A good while,'"—Mr. Linden repeated with grave emphasis. "Well do you think it would have lengthened the time to have me come and see you?"
Faith's heart was too full, and her answer, looking down, was a tremulous, quiet and tender,
"I don't think it would."
"Then wherefore was I not permitted?"
"I didn't want you to come then."